Montpelier Parade. Karl Geary

hearing the elevens bell, and then the shouts and cries, “Get him, get him!”

      You had a good lead. You ran through the first trickle of students that had begun to emerge from the classrooms, through a high-bricked corridor to where a black steel gate stood between you and the main road beyond, maybe eight feet high, with a ledge halfway up where you could get your footing, and in a few rehearsed strides you were over the crest of it and dropping down to the other side.

      You knew he wouldn’t follow you outside. No, he’d go up to the principal’s office, probably bringing the bicycle with him. He’d knock on the office door and wait, assembling a story where he could be the hero. You couldn’t blame him for that.

      You were sorry then, as you slowed your pace, checking over your shoulder. Being caught always made you sorry, but it didn’t feel like the sorry for being caught. It was the sorry that was deeper inside you and made you heavy and sad, and think that it would be nice to be asleep or somewhere else. You crossed over the wet road. You would have to wait it out a few hours and go back for the last class. He probably didn’t know what you were called, but he knew the rest of it, and it would only be a matter of time before your name came across the intercom, summoning you to the office. It would be known that it was you, would find its way through the line at the tuck shop, along corridor A, corridor B, corridor C, settling in a dust around you, in secret whispers and looks along the classroom. You knew how it went.

      10

      Those young ones from your school, Sonny. They’re fucking gagging. Look it, ya’d lick the arses off ’em,” says Mick.

      His hand gripped his prick through his apron, his wet tongue showing. You were standing at the partition wall in the back of the shop, using the steel brush to clean off the huge butcher block.